Page 48 of The Auction
I scrub my hands on a paint-stained towel and check on Mom before heading back to my car. I already staged the lie—told her I got commissioned for a piece by some downtown gallery. My first one.
Said they were setting me up with a furnished apartment for the month so I could focus and hit the deadline.
Her face lit up when I told her and that made my guilt increase tenfold. She’s the only one that supported my art. Told me I could do anything. How much talent I had. Made Daddy build the studio and buy me every color of paint available.
My brother always said it was a waste. Made me feel like the pictures in my mind were pointless. That going to college for my art was a hobby until I got married. Because that’s all I could be good for.
Being married and becoming a mom. Like my life had nothing else to offer but that.
Mom always wanted me to see how far I could go.
She was genuinely upset when I moved back in to take care of her. She wanted me to live my life. Not be stuck in limbo while she fights cancer.
How on earth would she ever think I could leave her like this. Especially with Daddy gone barely two years.
Even now, I want to stay. To tell Jaxon to fuck off and that I’m not leaving her. That I need to spend as much time with her as I can in case I never get to again.
But this is the only shot I have to fix what’s coming. To save the only home we’ve ever known.
That if she does close her eyes one day, if cancer wins, the last thing she’ll see is this place she loved so much.
With one look back at the house, I blow a kiss hoping the soft breeze carries it to Mom.
And then I leave before I can change my mind.
The city rises up around me like a steel mirage. Towering glass and polished concrete, the buzz of wealth radiating from every corner.
I’ve never been inside Jaxon’s penthouse before. Just heard stories. Seen the occasional background in a photo from an afterparty or one of Jonathan’s rare humble-brag mentions.
But the building itself is massive. Intimidating. The kind of place that doesn’t just whisper money—it screams it through Italian marble and staff that anticipate your every need.
I pull up to the valet and barely roll down my window before someone steps forward and says, “Good afternoon, Ms. Hayes.Mr. Kane let us know you’d be arriving. We’ll take care of your bags.”
Of course he did.
They already know my name. Know my car. Like this is some kind of luxury hostage situation.
A uniformed man grabs my suitcase and duffel while another opens the driver’s side door. “We’ll park it in Mr. Kane’s private garage.”
Private garage.
Of course.
I climb out, smooth my shirt, and take a long, calming breath before stepping through the sleek glass doors. The lobby is all shadow and shine—dark granite floors, cascading lighting, minimalistic furniture that costs more than my entire wardrobe.
An attendant leads me to a private elevator at the back. Not just exclusive. Personal.
Because why wouldn’t Jaxon has his own elevator?
I roll my eyes as the doors glide shut behind us, sealing me in with the uncomfortable weight of my own reflection and the polite man seeing to my bags.
We begin the smooth, silent ascent to the top.
To him. To the man that is going to take my virginity.
My brother’s best friend. The man I once loved.
The elevator doors glide open, and I instantly hate it.
